


Pygmalion and the Devil

by DatSonyat



Series: In Reverence to the Master [1]
Category: Overlord - Maruyama Kugane & Related Fandoms
Genre: Biting, Breathplay, Choking, Clothes-On Sex basically, Demi has a fetish for Ulbert's claws, Dirty Talk, Dry Sex, Fantasy Fulfillment, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Knifeplay, M/M, Male Solo, Mentions of Female Character and Threesome, Mild Blood, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Romance, Submission, Teasing, Ulbert likes to... direct, sorry for deleting the original version
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-08 15:58:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18626491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DatSonyat/pseuds/DatSonyat
Summary: Lord Ainz is thankfully,mercifullywrong, and against all that he is, against every fibre of his being screaming traitor, Demiurge feels only ecstasy.He doesn't want to be Lord Ulbert's child.[Originally published January 20th 2019. This version will stay up and function as a standalone piece.]





	Pygmalion and the Devil

An innocent question. Then, a confession, and the script changes.

Dim candlelight flickers across the polished marble floor, casting languid, dancing shadows along the walls, infernal and divine in their colouring, in their nature—a pale imitation of the Supreme Being they will never rival. The crackling of indolent flames and measured footsteps echo in his twitching, lightly flushed ears, and Demiurge allows himself a single, minute swallow. Keeps his breathing even.

That luxury will be gone soon, he knows— _prays_ —the tempo of his heart quickening after asking such a question.

“My, is that what you believe?” Lord Ulbert’s mesmerizing voice slides down his spine, slick with devious sin and predatory grace, and Demiurge knows better than to mask his visible shiver or the tiniest shift of his feet.

It takes all of himself not to answer the rhetorical question. His entire being thrums with primal excitement, only the ardent swaying of his tail and growing arousal belying his composed façade.

The grand sweep of Lord Ulbert’s cloak catches the faintest edges of his half-lidded, glittering eyes, but Demiurge obediently stares at the floor, at his warped reflection. It taunts, contorted and fiendishly at him, an overly vulgar expression he daren’t show his lord.

Remaining the epitome of the perfect gentleman is nigh impossible, knowing all he does—all he will _ever_ do—is for his master’s desires.

A vivid image of Lord Ulbert taking him on his back strikes him, one leg draped over a slim, grey shoulder while the other’s fastened around a trim waist. Demiurge’s wrists are bound and shackled above him, tail coiled around one of Lord Ulbert’s legs as he fucks him with wanton abandon, hips crashing into his own, filling him and reducing him to a moaning, obscene mess. Lord Ulbert growls filthy nothings ( _and affectionate words not meant for him_ ) between his own heavy moans, blazing eyes locked onto his helpless ones, commanding him to come. His unsheathed, black claws trail blood behind them and Demiurge would obey and _scream_ for him, coming _that_ much harder when Lord Ulbert does, snarling and losing himself inside—

Demiurge shudders with an erratic flick of his tail. Yes, all for his master.

_His master’s pleasure._

Simmering need replaces the blood in Demiurge’s veins, molten heat seething to boil over suffusing him in its torturously rapturous haze, forever ready to envelop and devour him just as Lord Ulbert’s passive is. It travels through his body, both too fast and too slow, from his hopelessly reddening cheeks to the tip of his swelling erection—and he can’t hide it, will _never_ hide it from his creator, breathing deeper, quicker.

Demiurge’s breath is gone before Lord Ulbert ever touches him.

Lord Ulbert comes to a stop behind him, finished circling his prey. A single claw is drawn up the length of his spine, dragging up the back of his prickling neck—never enough pressure to break the skin—to his hairline, and in a sharp snick of steel that brings him to full, startling but welcome hardness that he nearly rocks into, all five run through his hair, combing and admiring.

 _Doting,_ and Demiurge’s heart skips a beat.

“Shall I show you the truth, my lovely Demiurge?”

“Your desire is my desire, Lord Ulbert,” he answers, profane exhilaration colouring his business-like tone. Lord Ulbert feeds on their play, on the act, regardless of how and when he falls to pieces. Demiurge does not move, does not dare to look upon his master’s visage, fighting off the all-encompassing urge to melt into his hand.

Demiurge knows the rules: _“Don’t look at me. Don’t touch me,”_ until he’s granted explicit permission. All permission should be earned, not freely given.

“Is that so?” Lord Ulbert counters, and his hum of devilish amusement is anything but belief.

Demiurge’s beguiling smile takes on a savage edge, lips parting just so, his elongated canines peeking out.

_“Everything, you will always show me **everything**.”_

Cool, metal claws curve around his throat, brushing against his skin in feather-light strokes. Demiurge wills himself not to swallow this time, the gentle pressure of the blades’ deadly sharpness caressing him. Each methodical movement is both threatening and tender, a testament to his lord’s unfathomable nature of duality.

The quietest of shivery breaths leaves him, lips parting further, taking in what oxygen Lord Ulbert so generously offers him before he blessedly takes it away. As if reading his mind, the fiery presence behind him chuckles for he cannot be fooled, so sinister and pleased in equal measure that Demiurge can’t hold back a soft gasp, breaking out in gooseflesh, cock twitching.

He doesn’t bother to silence himself, doesn’t want to, knowing Lord Ulbert basks in every carnal noise he wrings from him. Demiurge longs to press into his creator, silvery tail winding around lithe legs, taking the utmost care not to touch.

He hasn’t been given permission, after all.

Lord Ulbert, kind and cruel, nuzzles the crook of his neck in response, the narrow lips of his slender muzzle ghosting soft, appreciative kisses there. “How polite,” he murmurs, rich and velvety in Demiurge’s ear. A heady rush of liquid heat floods through him at the compliment. “Such good behaviour should be”—fangs playfully nip his right ear, coaxing a loving sigh from him—“rewarded, don’t you think?” His hand tightens, fingers flexing, claws teasing.

 _I’m unworthy,_ he means to protest, beginning to wheeze for breath—he’s so hard he’s aching at the thought of being punished by Lord Ulbert instead of rewarded. Would his master’s infinitely artistic, ever sadistic punishment selfishly please him more than any reward?

But to disobey Lord Ulbert is sacrilege of the highest order, and this _is_ a reward, to be desired and touched and stroked by his adored creator.

Demiurge clings to his slipping focus and says, “If it is your wish, my, _ah_ —“ He shivers, full of want, as silky fur tumbles over the exposed flesh of his neck, a sharp contrast to the slowly constricting claws forcing his head upwards, squeezing the air from his lungs. “—m-my lord,” he exhales in elation, reverent to his last breath.

Lord Ulbert smells of arcane fire and smouldering ash, his scent utterly intoxicating, the living embodiment of everything he created the Seventh Floor to be—unrelenting and consuming, and Demiurge is fated to lose himself in it, in _him_.

Trembling in anticipation, Demiurge tilts his head back in complete submission as Lord Ulbert’s grip around his throat tightens, all but leaning into his master’s shoulder—not touching, never touching, not until he’s told.

“Do you truly have no desire of your own? Have I created,” Lord Ulbert mercifully closes the small distance, molding their bodies together in a seamless, graceful motion and Demiurge almost groans in spite of himself, “a devil with no avarice? No…”

Lord Ulbert’s right hand traces the crisp angles of his suit, sheathed fingers leisurely following the crease of his suit jacket, index finger catching on the single button holding it closed.

“…lust?”

“For you alone,” he breathes without hesitation, the three words overflowing with a depth of affection and fealty he fears will never be enough. He swore himself to Lord Ulbert first, his creator, his god, his ultimate love—unmatchable and irreplaceable.

A sonorous rumble rolls through Lord Ulbert and Demiurge feels more than hears it, the captivating sound he has no right to but relishes all the same tearing a second, rougher gasp from him. “ _Yes_ ,” he says, fervent and equally breathy in response to Demiurge’s raw devotion, twining two of their legs together. “What splendid perfection I’ve created.”

His heart thuds at Lord Ulbert’s fierce approval and pride, desperate yet patient, waiting and wishing for nothing more than to please ( _to touch without restraint, but no, that’s too far, too selfish, too **unworthy**_ ). “And yet…” A warm, sensual lick follows the curve of his ear, swirling around the pointed tip in a way Demiurge has blasphemously dared to dream about in another way and he shudders and moans huskily, hips rolling, begging for the barest of touches before reining himself in.

There’s enough sultry tease, enough amused threat there to drive his point home: _You held back._ Nothing escapes his master’s notice. A bolt of white-hot shame lances through him, to have denied Lord Ulbert something he so enjoys.

A painful blush darkens Demiurge’s lowered ears and he speaks in deference, uncaring how it leaves him near breathless, “Please f-forgive my i-insolence, I—“ He’s cut off by Lord Ulbert’s brief and immeasurably powerful silent warning, the pressure building at the base of his spine soaring, cock so achingly, unbearably hard he’s close to believing he’ll spill his soul out along with his come when his master allows it.

It doesn’t matter, Demiurge thinks, mouth falling open in a feverish expression of simultaneous agony and euphoria, when all that he is belongs to Lord Ulbert. If his master bade him humiliate himself, to come from his voice alone, how gladly he’d do it, without question, without thought. Anything to please him, _anything_.

And his benevolent creator is as a true god, always knowing, always understanding him. “My lovely Guardian,” Lord Ulbert whispers his delighted praise, relaxing his grasp to its previous strength, claws drawing small droplets of blood where they rest.

Demiurge sucks in a much needed breath—and it’s _nowhere_ near enough—skin hot and sensitive, neck still craned upwards. _Thank you,_ he mouths in place of words when they fail, lungs burning, vision dimming, unable to lament his impropriety when Lord Ulbert _wants_ him like this.

“So well-behaved, such gentlemanly manners. Exactly as I created you, hm?” He laughs lowly in Demiurge’s ear and repeats the erotic motion, tongue lavishing attention to every ridge, curve, and crook, wordlessly proving his exquisite prowess. The finger caught on the button of his jacket presses harder, pulling until it’s taut and fit to break.

Lord Ulbert toys with the button a moment longer like it’s something else entirely, the unspoken promise sparking a forceful jolt of arousal. Demiurge jerks in his arms, instinctively stifling his absolute ecstasy when the blades of his claws bite into him, nerves alight with pleasure. Hot blood trickles from the shallow wounds, heightening his endless ardour.

That his master deigns to touch him in such a way, a way he’s only fantasized about, is a sensation sublime beyond words. Even so, he realizes his error, too late as Lord Ulbert’s lips curl into a wry smirk against his electrified skin and Demiurge can’t stop the excited trembles overwhelming him.

He _will_ be punished now. To deny Lord Ulbert his voice is a sin, one his master savours… _teaching_ him.

“No, no, my dear, I made it clear I _want_ to _hear_ you. Every beautiful sound you make is”—Lord Ulbert pulls him flush to his shoulder, grinding into him through their clothing, eloquent words devolving into a hungry snarl—“ _mine_.”

The button pops open with a decisive flick and Demiurge gives a hoarse cry, the surge of unadulterated desire so strong his straining cock pulses in his pants, leaking with every twitch, seeping into the fabric where the tip sits. It _hurts_ and his sigh is shaky, but such magnificent pain he wishes for over and over, to hear his master’s order—his _claim_. To receive his rewards and punishments like they are one and the same.

“Perhaps you are naughtier than I thought?” Lord Ulbert chides, throaty with a touch of hunger, grinning. “You could have asked, dear one. I am a gracious god. Now tell me,” his free hand gently runs up Demiurge’s abdomen, the light caress sending his muscles fluttering, “is this the extent of your desire?” The motion of his lord’s hips is subtle, the ebb and swell of a serene tide hiding vicious, deadly rip currents beneath its tranquil, hypnotic surface.

Demiurge fumbles for words the way he does for air, rocking back against Lord Ulbert, their hips rolling in a slow, intense dance, not unlike the flames performing for them. His hands rise to complete their embrace.

Lord Ulbert chuckles and nips the side of his neck. “You’ve not been given permission to use your hands.”

“Apologies, my lord. T-this,” Demiurge finally manages, arms going limp, smile delirious and eyes unfocused as spots dance across his vision, “this is my”—a desperate inhale as Lord Ulbert’s hand flexes, a dizzying rush of pleasure with it—“desire.” Blood’s dyed the white of his pristine collar and he shakily loosens his tie, letting it to slip unceremoniously to the floor, composure forgotten and needless.

What his master wants has never been clearer, and Demiurge is more than willing to give it to him.

Lord Ulbert’s hand closes tighter, claws cutting deeper, right hand returning to Demiurge’s shirt collar, teasing the top button in a slow, circular pattern.

“Tell me,” he commands roughly, the wet heat of his mouth tantalizingly close, claw circling the button in a deliberate show, “then _beg_.” Their hips buck together, Lord Ulbert’s intertwined leg hooking around his shin. Demiurge’s tail follows suit, needing something, _anything_ , to anchor him.

“Lord Ulbert…” falls from his lips unbidden. The undertone of his voice is nearing a ragged sob, and Demiurge releases a needy whine, entranced by the exaggerated strokes, picturing the swollen head of his dick in its place. Lord Ulbert hums in agreement, dark and low, snapping the first button open.

Demiurge flinches and groans openly, light-headed and flushed and covered in a fine sheen of sweat. Vertigo threatens to take his shaking legs out from under him, yet all he can think of is answering his creator, pleasing him, enduring his wanted punishment and in turn, earning his reward.

The thought of coming is almost too much and he holds back the urge to grit his teeth. His traitorous body refuses to listen, tail flexing, chest heaving, and hips moving.

“Is this your deepest desire?” Lord Ulbert asks, his lust and pleasure obvious with each noise Demiurge makes. The second button opens in a flash of gleaming metal, then the third, each one followed by a pronounced shudder and bucking of eager hips. “Or do you wish for something more, something… else?” His knowing purr sends shivers coursing through Demiurge and his hands tremble both from lack of air and a potent urge to stroke himself—to beg for _any_ friction.

“Punishment,” he rasps, eyes fixated on the sickles plucking his dress shirt’s buttons with precision and care, hips stuttering as they part. “My l-lord, I-I want you to”—he tries to gasp, devoid of air—“t-to punish m-me, exactly l-like t-this. T-that is my…” One of his hands rises subconsciously—anything to just _breathe_ , to not disappoint his creator—halting only when he realizes he’d meant to touch Lord Ulbert without permission.

_Greatest desire._

A pause as he struggles, for precious air, for even more priceless, undeserved touch, then, “My delicious pet, what fine tastes you have.” Lord Ulbert’s wicked tongue laves the droplets of sweat beading at the heated base of his neck, trailing up and around to play with his earlobe, and Demiurge can’t exhale the strangled moan stuck in his throat, hips squirming.

“It pleases me,” Lord Ulbert says, undoing the final button with a sibilant hiss. “ _You_ please me,” he growls in victory, possessive—as is his right, _forever his right_ —and releases Demiurge’s throat to sink his pointed teeth into it, tongue greedily lapping up the rivulets of blood, grasping him by the thigh and rutting against him.

Every part of him sings with joy upon hearing Lord Ulbert’s declaration, filling himself with bliss the same way his heaving lungs gorge themselves with great breaths, cock throbbing in tandem with his thundering heartbeat. _Mine, mine, **MINE**_  resonates in the core of Demiurge’s being with every voracious suck, Lord Ulbert’s intoxicating power and indomitable will surging through him and it’s through sheer willpower alone that he doesn’t come undone then and there.

“Please, my lord,” he begs at last, teased so deeply he’s fit to burst, shuddery inhales punctuating his undignified words, arching into his master’s brutal thrusts, as though they _are_ fucking in the exact manner he’d imagined. “Please…” Demiurge trails off, faltering, feeling he’s yet to serve his appropriate penance, but this is the desire of a Supreme Being, _his_ Supreme Being. “Please touch me, Lord Ulbert. Please do as you wish with me, your eternally faithful”— ** _unworthy_** _, you have another_ —“servant in all things. I am yours alone.”

Lord Ulbert withdraws, and a whimper escapes Demiurge. “You are,” he drawls, drawing his tongue across Demiurge’s quivering jawline. He’s careful in catching the trails of blood lazily sliding down the expanse of his throat, dipping into the divot of his collarbone where it pools there, satiny ear brushing against his cheek. “You were mine first, and you’re mine again. But, I wonder…?”

The slyness, the rippling undercurrents of possessiveness reverberate through Demiurge’s body and he rubs against his creator with renewed interest.

Lord Ulbert is far from finished with him, how foolish to believe otherwise.

“My lord?” he implores, voice edging into a husky sound of need when Lord Ulbert’s left hand drifts across his thigh, clawed hand splaying with diabolical intent. His fingers trace the pinstripes of Demiurge’s pants—his ears briefly drop in embarrassment when he sees the blatant stain there—inching ever closer and he holds his breath, hoping beyond hope, _please—_

“I wonder…” Lord Ulbert echoes himself, his fascination and cunning promising something Demiurge can’t quite pin down. He smiles, the avatar of beauty and allure, his awe-inspiring cruelty evident in his near inaudible laughter. “You have permission to touch yourself,” he murmurs, full of mischievousness.

Unable to stand it, to contemplate Lord Ulbert’s machinations worked up as he is, Demiurge wastes no time removing his gloves, fabric pinched between his teeth as he peels them off one at a time, revelling in his master’s rumbling growls of approval. His belt is gone next, undone and stripped with sinuous grace despite the way his hands shake. By the time he’s opening his pants, he’s gasping in long held desire and outright keens when he grips his impossibly hard, pulsating length.

“Do it,” Lord Ulbert demands, setting the pace with his own hips, “stroke your cock for me. Show me.” The shameless noises he makes as he grinds into Demiurge’s ass are so decadent, so utterly passionate and ravenous that he can’t help but thrust, palming himself while teasing his cockhead with two fingers, smearing the steadily beading fluid there with his fingertips, moaning like the complete slut Lord Ulbert wants to see.

“Fuck,” Lord Ulbert’s teeth gnash in his ear, his appreciative groan a supernova of pure, cosmic ecstasy shooting through his veins. “Yes, like that, _fuck_ , I want to see _everything_ —every twitch, every stroke, _every_ drop—“

And _he_ sounds like he might orgasm from watching Demiurge and it’s more than enough for him, to begin fucking his hand in earnest, the sound of flesh against slick flesh drumming in his ears. His moans become cries of boundless pleasure and form an exultant choir for Lord Ulbert’s sole enjoyment.

“You don’t have permission to come,” Lord Ulbert moans against his ear, tugging on his earlobe with his teeth, and Demiurge seals a hand around the base of his excruciatingly aching dick, rocking into the other all the while. He flexes his fingers in an ascending pattern, desperate for the brief respite and alternating sensation.

Demiurge refuses to come until he’s allowed. Permission, permission, never without.

“I wonder if you’d let me suck you off,” and it’s the cruelest, most sinister tone Lord Ulbert’s ever used on him and he has no choice but to clamp down on his cock, a pained moan caught in the back of his throat. The heat pooled in his groin and the pressure at the base of his spine tingling his tail hit peak, molten pleasure begging to be released.

Lord Ulbert wants to—to— Demiurge can’t parse it, the image of the Supreme One that created him kneeling before him, servicing him, yellow eyes boring into his too much to bear.

“I—I’m unworthy,” he voices the thought that’s been plaguing his heart since they began, cracking and blazing with a desire so hot his immunity won’t save him.

“You _are_ worthy if I will it, is it not so?” Lord Ulbert leaves no room for interpretation, for argument, voice breaking the same way his is—how, _how_ is he bringing his lord such pleasure from _this_ alone? “Would you go against my wishes, my orders? Would I have to force you, make you sit, get down on my knees?” he continues and Demiurge nearly loses himself on a particularly spectacular thrust, fingers running along the underside of his cock. Lord Ulbert’s claws dig into the fabric and skin of his thigh, never enough to split his immaculately made suit or bloody him. “And take you in my mouth?”

Too much, it’s too much, the tongue playing with his neck and ear drinking him in—he just wants— _needs_ —

“Lord Ulbert, _please_ —“

“Not yet.” Lord Ulbert tsk’s through their panting— _when_ had _he_ started?—bloodied gauntlet dirtying his suit as both hands grope his thighs, kneading the tense, muscular flesh. “Have you dreamt of that, Demiurge? Have you dreamt of your creator sucking your cock?”

“Yes!” He doesn’t dare to lie to Lord Ulbert, the one he loves beyond words, who he fantasizes and dreams of almost exclusively. How many times has he brought himself to climax with thoughts of his master, his beloved? It’s impossible to deny, unthinkable, _heresy_.

“Good,” Lord Ulbert snarls triumphantly, right index claw beginning to trail up his quaking thigh. “And you’d protest, perhaps complain? But I wouldn’t stop, because that’s _exactly_ what you desire, isn’t it?”

“ _Anything_ , truly,” Demiurge replies between something of a harsh pant and sob, his voice unrecognizable even to himself. It’s one of his greatest fantasies, to play with Lord Ulbert like that... or to have his lord simply take him on his whims, his “protests” meaningless. His hand is wet, cock weeping, so in need of release he isn’t sure what to call it anymore, but his erratic thrusts don’t stop, only intensify as all of his shame is cast into the light and it’s _perfect_.

“And if I…” Lord Ulbert purrs lasciviously, biting Demiurge hard enough to draw blood and the sensation shoots straight to his dripping cock and he begs without words, poised to explode. “…made love to you with Amon?”

“Ah—“ Demiurge’s voice fails, his panting and moaning and near howling temporarily falling to silence.

With—with Lord Ulbert and his Divine Lady? It’s unthinkable, it’s… it’s _wrong_ … and that’s never once stopped him from coming so hard to the thought that his knees buckle in the privacy of his chambers.

Lady Amon is infinitely his greater as she should be, and is Lord Ulbert’s heart. How…? _Why? Make love to **him**?_

“Imagine it, my dear,” Lord Ulbert says, wrapped around him, cradling him with the all but the hand that’s steadfastly teasing his thigh with its sharpness—painfully close to touching him just as he’s dreamed of. “I’m behind you, _inside_ you,” he laughs breathlessly when Demiurge begs him once more, doesn’t slow his speech or the ruthless rhythm of his own hips, “and she’s bouncing on top of you, on top of us _both_ , riding—“ Lord Ulbert stops only to gather himself, falling to ragged, needy moans like Demiurge. “Riding you, her sweet cunt clenching you, pulling, _ah_ , orgasm after orgasm from you while I do the same— _fuck,_ _yes_ , keep going—two Supreme Beings bestowing such love and attention upon you. Would you have us?”

“Yes, nn, of course, Lord Ulbert, I _want_ —“

Demiurge imagines it without restraint, his creator, his _love_ has given him permission for it. He’s still bound, hands behind his back now, kneeling, legs intertwined with Lord Ulbert’s. His master kneels behind, sits him on his lap and eases him onto his ready cock and groans and strokes him lovingly when he’s buried to the hilt, biting and licking and kissing him. Lady Amon would look at the two of them then, her understanding, indescribably beautiful smile more radiant than all the stars in the night sky, and she would crawl on her hands and knees, as much a predator as Lord Ulbert… perhaps more, and perhaps when she reaches them, she’d bite his thighs, tease him with her tongue.

Lady Amon would slide up him, touching, stroking _all_ of him the way Lord Ulbert does, and they would share a tender kiss over his shoulder whilst she grinds her wet slit against his hardness. Her deep crimson hair falls over her shoulder and flows behind her as she takes him in, crystalline scales and patterns of dark red crystal parting and flushing darker for him, for _them_ , and they would move together, slow, fast, hard, soft, making love like the three of them _belong_ together, wishing to become _one_ for all eternity.

“You would be ours and we would be yours, forever,” Lord Ulbert whispers, face tucked into the crook of his neck, like there’s nowhere he’d rather be.

Demiurge _can’t_ —he can’t, not anymore, _this_ is his limit, this is his _greatest desire_ —

“Come for me.”

Demiurge cries out, pumping into his hand, cock aching and pulsing and leaking, no longer able to match Lord Ulbert’s tempo, finding his own reckless one as lewd encouragement drips from his creator’s silver tongue, tempered by his infinite elegance, and he can’t fathom hearing a more glorious melody.

The claw moving painfully slow up his thigh meets the seam of his leg and his hand moves faster, squeezing himself tighter, the blessed pressure and heat coiling so tight in his gut reaching a peak, a roaring inferno he hadn’t thought possible.

“I said,” Lord Ulbert commands through his euphoric moans, shaking with him, “come”—his claw traces the underside of Demiurge’s bursting cock, taking care to mind his swift, unstoppable fingers—“for”—his claw presses harder as he draws up the pulsing head and tip—“me.”

The tip of Lord Ulbert’s claw flicks over his dripping slit like it does in every single one of his fantasies and Demiurge’s entire body goes rigid and spasms, toes curling in his shoes, a Big Bang of heat exploding from his cock and tearing through him like the miniature beginning of a universe. It’s as though life itself is rushing through his veins and his vision fades to bursts of starlight behind his eyes, and he keeps riding his hand, fucking himself in time with Lord Ulbert who’s crying out behind him, shaking and shuddering and riding him until they’re both gone.

By some miracle, they don’t fall, trembling, exhausted legs locked together holding them upright and Demiurge is smiling before he feels it on his face, a few stray tears carving through the sweat clinging to his cheeks.

Lord Ulbert leans against him, breathing heavily between contented purrs, caressing Demiurge’s hip with his left hand. He brings the right, messy and dripping red and white to Demiurge’s mouth, expectant.

“As you wish,” Demiurge breathes, transfixed by the sight and runs his tongue along the blades, tasting salt and iron, satisfied with all that he is to service Lord Ulbert like this. “I…” he pauses between licks, eyes still wet, “I love you, my lord.”

“And I you, since the moment I created you,” Lord Ulbert answers him in turn, kissing his neck in a way Demiurge thinks might’ve been reserved for Lady Amon alone, once. “You have been and always will be mine, love.” His grip tightens, and Demiurge purrs with him.

“I will strive to live up to your immeasurable love, Lord Ulbert,” Demiurge promises him, carefully lapping at and shining his master’s cleansed claws.

There is laughter Demiurge is all too familiar with, all-knowing and wondrously evil. “I know you will. You have permission to look.” His smile widens and he needlessly turns, the presence against his back gone. An amused, hoarse chuckle of his own fills the room.

Even if he doesn’t know where to find him, Lord Ulbert _always_ returns. His everlasting love will keep Demiurge company until then.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeeeah, so as I said, sorry about deleting the original along with my other Overlord fics. This one should've stayed as it's completed. They were stressing me out hardcore and have some pretty negative feels attached, which I'm doing my best to work through.
> 
>  **So there is no questioning regarding the still deleted fics in the comments:** And All Falls to Ash will be reposted shortly. Those Who Remain will likely remain private indefinitely.


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